


The Spiders of Erebor

by KaavyaWriting



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bilbo is a right evasive bugger, Fluff, Halloween, King and Consort AU, M/M, Thorin is confused, and related Halloween themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 15:46:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8452264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaavyaWriting/pseuds/KaavyaWriting
Summary: Hobbits and Dwarves celebrate vastly different holidays in vastly different ways… Thorin would dearly like to know what All Hallows Eve is, and why it involves spiders.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Lovely readers… I don't know WTF this even is. I started writing it in a rush of inspiration after prompted by [lilithiumwords](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithiumwords/pseuds/lilithiumwords), and then it just kept going? It's five times longer than intended, which is why I am posting Halloween fic two days late. I blame Bilbo. But yay Halloween fic? Enjoy? :)
> 
> There is some Khuzdul in this, so for everyone's convenience: if you hover your cursor over the word, the translation will pop up. For everyone reading on mobile devices, the translation is in the end notes!
> 
> Not beta'ed, written in a flurry of…writing flurries, so I apologize for the probably immense number of errors.

"Bilbo." Thorin looked around their quarters in consternation, nothing of the royal suites resembling what they had looked like when he'd left this morning.

"Mmm?" Bilbo hummed, seeming only half aware Thorin had returned at all as he strung up… something that looked suspiciously like webbing. Which would make sense, given the general theme of their sitting room.

"Why are our rooms covered in spiders?" Thorin prodded at one that was conveniently hanging from a thin twist of silk rope near his shoulder just inside the door. "Fake, furry spiders."

"Because we don't have access to pumpkins this year," Bilbo responded absently, everything in his bearing suggesting he thought it the most obvious thing in the world.

Bilbo had had the day free from duties, and Thorin had fully expected Bilbo to sleep in (perhaps even to dawn, though Thorin knew his husband had trouble sleeping much past the sun, a Hobbit's habit, Bilbo said), putter around the foundations of the garden he, Thorin, and Bombur were designing in one of the palace courtyards that Smaug and a century of neglect had brought to ruin. It was a slow beginning—if Erebor was at its strength and her number strong, the blasted thing would be built by now, ready for Bilbo to plant whatever he wished. But Erebor was barely reclaimed, less than a year, and none of them had much time to spare for hobbies, from king and consort to architect to mason.

Bilbo understood. He put Erebor's restoration first as much as anyone, as much as Thorin. That didn't mean Thorin liked Bilbo going without something he desired. It was not in Thorin's nature to deny his One anything within his power to give.

And as king, _everything_ should have been in Thorin's power.

Bilbo bustled past Thorin, pausing only long enough to pluck the crown from Thorin's head and brush his fingers lightly through his hair, pushing back braids and loose strands alike, thumb tracing lightly over the shell of an ear enough to send pleasant shivers down Thorin's spine. 

When Thorin made to grab his husband, Bilbo was already moving on, breezing out the door back to the entrance hall. He had a thick bundle of off-white rope slung over his shoulder.

The crown was already slipped through Bilbo's arm like a boring piece of bric-a-brac he was putting away for the season, and he dipped briefly into the hall leading to their bedroom to deposit it on a table, in transition on its way back to its chest for the night.

Something bumped his shoulder, distracting Thorin from (not the least bit sulkily) watching his husband's exit.

It was the spider hanging inside the door. Thorin stared at it, resisting the urge to bat it aside as it gently swayed on its string, set in motion by Bilbo's passing. He would never admit the thing was unnerving, with its black glass beads set in its head like eyes, gleaming out of wiry, spiked fur, looking a little too real in the half-lit room.

Thorin frowned at it and trailed after his errant husband, calling out toward the front hall, "Are these made of those unsalvageable furs you claimed off Gedri before they burned them?"

Thorin found Bilbo just in time to have a minor panic attack his Hobbit clambered up on top the marble table just inside their suite's doors. Bilbo was using an unstable footstool as a boost, and while it was suitable enough to put ones feet on, it was _not_ remotely suitable for safeguarding his husband.

Dashing forward, Thorin still barely caught Bilbo's hips as the stool rocked dangerously. Bilbo startled at his grip, throwing an annoyed huff over his shoulder.

"Are you trying to knock me off?" he grumbled. "I had my balance just fine before you grabbed me."

"I'm sure," he bit out. His grip tightened on Bilbo's hips, but he lifted him up onto the table despite his better instincts.

It was only in looking up that Thorin finally saw what was tucked into the shadows of his own ceiling.

"Is that a web?"

"It seems perfectly obvious that it's a cloud of spun sugar," Bilbo said.

"Sarcasm is unbecoming of a consort," Thorin returned, frowning—Bilbo would say imperiously, if he'd been looking long enough to catch it, but fortunately he was busy with … something. He was not at all fighting back a smile. Kings did not smile at the peculiar behavior of their Ones.

"Why are you putting a web and rope up on our ceiling, beloved?" Thorin asked, and his words would have innocuous and sweet if his tone hadn't been dry as dust.

"I told you," Bilbo said, amused and not taking the bait the least bit, "I don't have any pumpkins. Granted so _many_ spiders is a tad unorthodox, but given our, ah, informative journey through the Mirkwood I thought it was fitting."

"Fitting for _what_ ," Thorin asked. He disliked admitting his ignorance, but Mahal himself knew how inscrutable Hobbits were. Or, at least, Thorin's specific Hobbit.

Bilbo sighed, patience thinning, though he kept steadily working on looping his rope through the taut strands of the web. "For All Hallows Eve, o king," he said, tone conveying he expected Thorin to know what that was even as he added, "I don't think Dwarves celebrate it. Most people don't."

"Ah, of course, I see." Thorin sighed. "I am shamed by my ignorance of a celebration I would never have heard of in the normal way of things."

Bilbo, as expected when Thorin got the best of him, ignored him.

Thorin let it go for now and settled in to watch him work, waiting patiently for further explanations and knowing they wouldn't come until Bilbo was less distracted. He began looking at the web with more attention, catching the way subtle strands had been slung around the four columns framing the entrance hall, giving the web a solidity it wouldn't have possessed otherwise. He was grudgingly impressed Bilbo had managed to anchor the contraption so far up, high enough to be half hidden in shadows.

When Bilbo had seemingly slung and twisted and wrapped his last rope up into the web he rubbed his hands together. "Well, this is coming along nicely, wouldn't you say?"

Thorin raised an eyebrow. "I still don't know what you're doing."

Bilbo cast a look down upon him from the lofty heights of the table. "It's a spider."

Thorin cast an equally vocal look back over the web before meeting his eyes once more. "I see no spider."

Bilbo's eyes fell on something behind Thorin, and he turned on his heel automatically.

" _'ârra! 'Usarul ofsil!_ " His sword—strapped to his waist like always, because he might be a king with a kingdom once more, but he was a _Dwarf king_ —was out in a flash. Pure instinct. There was no way he could not.

And whatever Bilbo later said of Thorin jumping in the air like a spooked pebble, he most certainly had _not_.

"Bilbo," Thorin said tightly. "There is a very large spider behind our door."

Bilbo was laughing. Thorin threw him a disgruntled look.

"You can sheathe Orcrist, Thorin. I assure you the spider is quite fake." Bilbo slipped down until he was sitting on the table, legs draped over the side, heels kicking in merriment. "I should know, having made the thing."

Thorin poked the spider—at least six foot tall, for Mahal's sake—with the tip of Orcrist out of spite, before sheathing his sword. It drew another laugh from Bilbo, and Thorin couldn't stop from casting another glare in his direction.

"Oh! Stop sulking." Bilbo laughed. He held out his arms in shameless invitation. "You've yet to greet your husband after long hours apart," he reminded him, only half teasing.

"And whose fault is that?" Thorin grumbled. That didn't stop him from moving between Bilbo's swinging legs, slinking his arms around his husband's middle, their foreheads bowing together.

The table turned out to be the perfect height to put them eye to eye, and Thorin was all too pleased to put it to good use. Bilbo appeared inclined to agree, his ankles hooking around Thorin's thighs to pull him closer.

"Hello, _amrâlimê_ ," Thorin breathed out in the quickly vanishing space between them. He kissed Bilbo, a teasing trace of lips against lips. Bilbo made a low sound, somewhere between irritated and longing, and pressed forward to deepen it. For long, pleasing minutes there was nothing in the world but warm mouths and wandering hands and quiet laughter shared between them.

When they parted, Thorin only moved so far as to rest his forehead against Bilbo's once more. "Mediating between the guilds is tiresome without you."

"I'd be little use trying to mediate between the miners and masons, as we've discussed. My time was better spent elsewhere today." Bilbo said it like he was repeating an oft-used explanation, a testament to how used Thorin had become to Bilbo's presence during councils. 

"Better spent," he said skeptically, shifting enough so his head rested atop Bilbo's, gaze drifting upward at the questionable web dangling like a taunt above them.

Bilbo pinched Thorin's side, still managing to find skin despite layers of clothing. Clever burglar fingers. The blow softened by the way Bilbo chuckled against his neck, hot breath puffing against the sliver of bare skin that showed beneath Thorin's slowly lengthening beard and the high, stiff collar of his tunic. Lips quickly followed breath, damp and warm, marking a soft, lazy path toward the hollow of his throat.

Thorin's fingers tangled in Bilbo's curls, stilling his wicked mouth before Bilbo began something they could not finish in the minutes before the others arrived.

"You keep them brief," Thorin complained, making a lackluster attempt to drag them back to safer territory. He carded fingers through Bilbo's loose hair, growing much quicker than Thorin's beard, already brushing his shoulders, barely kept under control despite braids and beads snaking through his hair, pulling unruly curls into some semblance of order.

Thorin felt the curve of Bilbo's smile against his skin and shivered. Bilbo dragged his teeth against the curve of Thorin's throat, a pointed remark that he had not missed Thorin's attempts at distraction, before he pulled back, disentangling their limbs.

Thorin let go reluctantly, for all it was his idea. They watched each other idly for long seconds, Bilbo's mouth quirking in another slow smile as Thorin frowned at him.

"What is All Hallows Eve?" he asked.

Bilbo laughed, startled. "Oh! Very well then. I suppose I ought to explain something of it. But this isn't a tale for tabletops and decorations. It's best told around a warm fireplace, with a warm drink and a pipe at hand."

Thorin moved to help Bilbo off the table, but Bilbo placed a restraining hand on his chest, holding up a finger poised for scolding. "But first help me put the spider up. Best to get these things done and sorted."

Thorin glanced back at the heap of spider behind him skeptically. When he turned to Bilbo to protest he found his husband wearing an insistent gleam in his eyes and a far too benign smile to mean anything good.

"Very well, husband." Thorin knew better than to oppose Bilbo's mischief—it was better to be on the same side of one so underhanded. (And he hoped the subtle reminder that they were married indeed meant they were on the same side wouldn't go missed by his too-clever Hobbit.)

"Do stop looking so worried!" Bilbo laughed, squirming back from Thorin's embrace to push himself to standing on the table once more. Thorin caught Bilbo's hips, lifting and balancing him instinctively, having no desire for Bilbo's sudden redecoration frenzy to lead to his injury.

Bilbo sighed from his position above him. "You're worrying loudly enough I can almost hear your exact words." He smiled down at Thorin affectionately. "Stop pretending you don't enjoy a laugh as much as I and go fetch that spider. The sooner—"

"—we get on, the sooner we're finished. Yes, yes. The cheek of Halfling burglars," Thorin scoffed, turning to collect the spider nonetheless, "Ordering kings about this way and that."

The spider was massive, if light, and it was difficult for Thorin to keep hold of without random legs jumping out to catch against the pillars, the rugs upon the floor, the table itself. It was a wonder Bilbo had managed to get it into their rooms on his own, never mind keeping his newly minted spider obsession from the mountain's well-oiled gossip rails. Through the grapevine, Hobbits called it, peculiar beings that they were.

Thorin looked up, the spider's body nearly blocking his sight, an annoyed complaint on the tip of his tongue, to spy Bilbo sticking his tongue out at him; perhaps he was playing the martyred husband a little too keenly. He smirked.

Bilbo rolled his eyes, holding his hands out impatiently for the unwieldy spider decoration. (Thank Mahal it was merely decoration. Thorin preferred to never deal with oversized arachnids again, come this life or the next.) He grimaced as he proffered it up, though despite his skepticism he made sure to hand it along carefully; he did not want Bilbo flying off the too-high table because of a little carelessness. Indeed, perhaps the table was a bit high for the entryway. Thorin could commission something shorter, less dangerous for Hobbits who thought climbing all over them was a wise idea when little more than hard stone and thin rugs awaited an unexpected fall.

"Thorin, so help me, if you do not stop worrying you can sleep with this spider tonight instead of with me, for I should like to sleep instead of worrying over what misguided ventures you're plotting in the name of over-protectiveness."

Thorin decided to ignore that in favor of the more salient concerns. "Sleep?"

Bilbo chuckled. "Depends how much energy I have to expend putting this up." He grabbed one of its legs carelessly and began wrangling the thing into place, apparently unconcerned about damaging it in the process.

Thorin sighed, not at all melodramatically whatever Bilbo's amused glance indicated, and climbed onto the table.

By the time he was standing beside Bilbo, his husband already had the spider hanging half in the air, two of its legs jammed awkwardly into the webbing as he wrestled with a third, never mind the body of the spider was as large as Bilbo was.

It must have been made of wire and fur, giving the spider it's frame and outline without adding excessive weight. Thorin eyed it, curious about its make and refusing to concede to Bilbo by revealing his interest.

"Shove those legs up on the other side, would you?" Bilbo hummed. He was focused intently on his work, stretched almost to the tips of his toes as he leaned up and tied one of the legs directly to the web with a bit of spare rope Thorin had not spied before.

Bilbo was industrious, even professional, as if he'd done such a thousand times before.

That did not stop Thorin from ignoring Bilbo's request completely, stepping quickly over so he could grab Bilbo's waist, anchoring and steadying his tenuous balance.

Bilbo huffed in front of him. "Worrywart."

"You could fall and crack your head open," Thorin complained.

"I've done this every year since I was old enough to tie knots," Bilbo said.

"Not whilst dangling above stone," he responded grimly.

Bilbo huffed again. "This table better still be here come morning."

Thorin did not respond. He wondered how severe Bilbo's wrath would be if it was there in the morning, but gone by nightfall.

" _Thorin_."

"Are you almost finished?" he demanded, though he could see perfectly well that Bilbo had moved on to the fourth leg, wiggling forward a little to reach the place it was to be tied to the web, Thorin shifting forward with him, keeping firm hold of his aggravating husband.

Bilbo was laughing at him quietly. "Worrywart," he said once more. "Dance with me to the other side then, so we can get the last four up and settle in with a nice cuppa."

It was quick work, and Thorin was relieved when Bilbo sat once more on the edge of the table. Thorin jumped down to the floor without much care. He cast a dark glance over the room—including the spider now ominously poised over the door, ill-concealed in the shadows—before catching Bilbo's eye. He suspected all the rooms were thus decorated, and couldn't begin to imagine how much work Bilbo had put into it all, or how long he'd been planning it. "Are you finished?"

"Yes, yes." Bilbo laughed, waved a hand, and looked up to look over his work like a master craftsman inspecting his final product. "I do believe that shall do quite nicely."

"I don't recall you doing this last year," Thorin grumbled.

Bilbo's smile was quick and mischievous. "We weren't _in_ Erebor last year, and a dragon and battle seemed enough to be getting on with."

Thorin tried very hard to stop the wave of guilt that flooded him at that.

Bilbo's hands came to rest upon his jaw. " _None_ of that, husband mine." His voice was stern. "What is past is past, for both our parts, is that not so?" At Thorin's jerky nod, he continued, "Leave it there."

Thorin breathed out, hands coming up to cover Bilbo's. He turned enough to kiss one palm—a hand built so much smaller than his own. Bilbo hummed contentedly at the sensation, of warm lips and soft beard; he'd mumbled to Thorin once it felt like home, when he'd been on the edge of sleep. Thorin didn't think Bilbo remembered speaking it, and he was reluctant to reveal his knowledge either, cradling the half-secret between them like a fragile thing, like the heart of their home.

"All Hallows Eve," Thorin prompted, voice quiet and hoarser than he planned, because it was more of an effort to turn his thoughts from dark memories than he cared to admit. 

Bilbo smiled genially, happy to guide Thorin from the maze of his thoughts. "I believe I required less tables and more armchairs for these explanations."

"A pipe and drink as well, if I recall true." Thorin smiled faintly and obligingly plucked Bilbo off the table, lifting him in his arms instead of setting him back on the floor. Ignoring Bilbo's startled squeak and quickly following protests—"Thorin, I am a grown Hobbit! I am too old for this! Goodness, a Hobbit's feet belong on the _ground_!" all the while huffing and blushing and trying to hide his smiles—Thorin carried him back toward the sitting room.

He settled Bilbo on one of their two plush armchairs—Dori and Bifur had found and restored a pair as a gift for Bilbo during the few idle hours not long after the battle of the five armies, as people had taken to calling it. The chairs were unjustly comfortable, and Bilbo still thanked them on occasion.

The fireplace was already lit, crackling merrily away. They didn't have the mulled wine Bilbo had specified earlier, but Thorin opened a bottle of the old Dale vintage that had survived in the depths of Erebor's wine cellars. When he turned back to the fire, Bilbo already had their pipes out and was tamping pipe weed in with a deft hand. Thorin could hear the faint mutterings of Bilbo complaining under his breath, an act he put on whenever Thorin went "Gondorian knight" on him, which was, apparently, very often.

Thorin couldn't help smiling softly at the sight.

A year ago, Thorin would never have believed this possible. This life. This happiness.

Some nights he still woke unable to keep the doubt at bay.

"You're brooding, o king," Bilbo spoke up, not looking up as he tucked one pipe between his teeth before bringing a match to it. The second followed shortly after, flaring to life beneath his fingers. He looked up then. "Are you coming back or not? I can handle two pipes if I must, but I think I'd rather your company."

Thorin breathed out a sigh and returned to the chairs, sinking down beside Bilbo and accepting the proffered pipe without a word. And that was acceptable: when Thorin lacked for words, Bilbo filled the space between them with an ease he sometimes envied.

Bilbo's fingers settled over Thorin's free hand (always the one nearest Bilbo). Their fingers laced together as old lovers. Bilbo chuckled as though the same thought flickered through his mind.

"All Hallows Eve then," Bilbo said, a hum to his voice, a storyteller's quality sinking into him even in those few words. "It's a bit of a muddled history, I'll grant, but I suppose it starts with how we go about it today.

Bilbo smiled softly at the flickering glow of the fireplace. "It's all sweet treats, trickery and fun, parties and bonfires, and, as goes with us Hobbits, good drink and better food. Young faunts dress in as scary costumes as they can imagine and go door to door around the villages tricking for treats. Even faunts old enough to know better get in the spirit of things." He shot Thorin a laughing smile. "It's a rare Hobbit who will turn up an opportunity for a candied fruit or sweet cake."

Thorin frowned, thumb absently sweeping along Bilbo's knuckles. "Adults in the Shire make sweets for pebbles—children in trade for tricks to celebrate—" That stopped him up short, not that he'd understood the explanation in the first place.

"All Hallows Eve," Bilbo said. "It's near Durin's Day, as you may have noticed, the first full moon of Blotmath—ah, the end of October?" At Thorin's nod, Bilbo continued, "It is the celebration—well, in truth it's more like a week of festivities celebrating a proper mess of things.

"Any particulars?" Thorin asked drily.

Bilbo sniffed. "The harvest, naturally. It's the most plentiful time of the year, and when most Hobbits find a lengthy break in a day's work. But it is also…" Bilbo was searching for words, a moment of uncertainty Thorin didn't often see in him anymore as he grew steadily more comfortably into the sharp lines and glimmering light of Erebor. "A caution and a remembrance. We celebrate those who have come before, and we look upon the coming winter and the dangerous shape of our borders, I suppose."

He cast Thorin a rueful look. "I did warn you it was a muddy affair."

"Tell me more of it," Thorin requested. "What of the pebbles' trickery? Why these spiders?"

Bilbo looked away. He took in a deep pull of his pipe, letting it sit within him a long moment before breathing it out. "Well. There's an element of fear to All Hallows Eve, which is the night of the full moon, predictably followed by All Hallows Day when proper bonfire parties begin across the Shire.

"It's all in good fun these days, but there's some truth to it. We live too close to the Old Forrest, to Barrow Downs, even Deadman's Dike," Bilbo said. Thorin's fingers squeezed gently around his in question.

Bilbo smiled faintly, with more unease than true humor. "Ask any Bucklander and they'll tell you they've seen the trees of the Old Forest move. And there is a reason travelers do not dare to enter the Barrow Downs, for when night falls none are safe from the restless dead—and what happens thence?

"In the first nights before winter, when hearts are at ease with a summer's accomplishments, it is said those restless spirits are freed from their prison in the Downs and roam the nearby lands. Bree-men closed their doors and would not give entrance to strangers at night, and the Shirefolk traveled in eerie costume, so the dead would think them one of them and leave them in peace. Homes were decked much the same to keep the ghosts at bay." Bilbo shook his head. "That's how All Hallows Eve truly began. Protection against the dark magic sleeping too close to us. Lying in wait."

Thorin hesitated, watching Bilbo's dark expression. He decided, and squeezed Bilbo's hand firmly. When Bilbo looked to him—with eyes too dark, too stricken—he spoke. "Surely these are only old tales? Ones to scare children." His tone conveyed more than he meant how much he doubted Bilbo would believe in such nonsense. Yes, there was evil in the world, and it crept along in the night more often than not, but it did not rest all but one day a year. It did not have a blind eye for children in costumes.

Bilbo looked away, eyes turning back toward the fire, though he did not seem to see it.

"I thought that, once," Bilbo confided quietly. "I thought… Well, it _is_ foolish, isn't it?" He asked as though seeking confirmation, and Thorin offered it readily; beliefs set aside, Thorin wanted more than anything to soothe that distressed look away from his husband's face.

Bilbo's fingers tightened around Thorin's. "I was staying with my cousins one fall when I was a tween. Barely twenty-three, you know, but my mother was close to our Brandybuck relatives and so I spent a great deal of time visiting them with her." Bilbo sighed. "Oh, this is ridiculous. Let's forget this fool's story and talk of more pleasant All Hallows traditions." He turned a bright, forced smile toward Thorin. "Did I mention the tricks Hobbits of all ages enjoy playing on others? Or the party games—there's this entertaining one bobbing for apples, and divining one's future love with the apple's peel."

"Bilbo." Thorin lifted their joined hands to press a kiss to his knuckles. " _Yasthûn_. Tell me your tale." Bilbo visibly hesitated, and Thorin could not remember seeing him falter so since the first weeks of the quest.

"It's not… Really, Thorin, it is no important matter."

"It is important to _me_ ," Thorin insisted. "Perhaps it would ease your mind to discuss it with another."

Bilbo tried to pull free of his grip, but Thorin held on all the tighter. He turned his face away to stare into the fire. "I should not have brought it up," he muttered, chewing at his bottom lip nervously before he sighed softly, shoulders slumping. "But very well."

Yet instead of speaking Bilbo kept gnawing at his lip distractedly, fingers twitching in Thorin's hand as if he wished nothing more than to fidget. He went so far as to lay aside his pipe, running restless fingers through his hair.

Truly Thorin had not seen him so nervous long months. He squeezed Bilbo's hand once more to reassure him, and wondered if he should not end this before Bilbo unraveled further. Bilbo spoke before he could.

"I was staying with Brandybuck family, as I said," Bilbo began once more. "Aunt Mira and Uncle Gorby officially, but Rorimac, Amaranth, and I slipped off to spend a few days along the Brandywine. Amaranth wanted to go boating, which she's always had a _terrible_ fondness for, and Rori and I wanted to fish—usually the fishing is quite good along the Brandywine, did you know?" Bilbo offered Thorin a charming smile. "I used to spend a lot of summers fishing with my cousins. Rori especially, and Saradas, both of whom charmed the neighbors along the river, unlike their brothers, who always pestered them, and their sisters, who preferred boating—"

"Bilbo," Thorin interrupted gently. "You're trying to distract us both."

"Yes, and you're not making it very easy," Bilbo complained.

"Please tell me?" Thorin asked.

"Fine, fine." Instead of continuing, Bilbo picked up his glass of wine, savoring it for a long moment before setting it aside once more. "I'd gone along with my cousins for the fishing, but Amaranth convinced me the fishing would be better on the boat. I don't know what possessed me, but I agreed."

"You couldn't swim," Thorin protested.

Bilbo's smile was quick and fleeting. "I couldn't swim in the Mirkwood either."

"I remember," Thorin said darkly. Bilbo had been half drowned from it.

It was Bilbo's turn to squeeze Thorin's fingers in silent comfort. "The Brandywine is a mellow river for the most part. That is why it was quite a shock when our boat knocked hard when we first set out from shore." Bilbo paused to gather himself. "Well! I confess I almost called it quits right then and there. I ought to have. It was mid-afternoon when we set out and night was coming along quickly, as it is wont to do in fall. The knock had my nerves on edge in an instant, though Amaranth laughed and apologized; she must have bumped the boat against drift near the bank, she'd said.

"The waters were peaceful enough after that, at first. Rori and I fished a good hour, only an occasional roll of the boat distracting us. The rocking was strong for such a calm day, Rori noted, but he didn't seem bothered with it, so I put it from my mind.

Then I caught a very fine fish on the line!" Bilbo declared, suddenly energetic, and he mimed fighting a fish on an imaginary reel. He smiled in memory. "I almost had the thing—it had to be half my size, it put up such a fight—when out of the blue the line snapped!"

Thorin snorted in amusement. The way the story was going, he was beginning to doubt the traumatic events Bilbo claimed happened, regardless of the history of All Hallows Eve.

"Well, that does happen," Bilbo said, and though his tone was rueful, the look he cast Thorin was unreadable. "A few seconds after that there was a terrible shuddering thud against the bottom of the boat and the whole thing rocked, hard enough it rolled halfway up the lip before settling back—it was no wave that had caused that. I remembering having the wildest thought: the fish rammed the boat, it was so furious with me!" He shook his head. "What rot."

"What hit the boat?" Thorin found himself asking despite himself.

Bilbo's mouth quirked. "I don't know—we—I never knew. But, well. Rori and Amaranth were unnerved, it was plain on their faces. Rori began checking the bottom of the boat for damage, for leaks. Amaranth suggested we return to the dock. Not two hours had pasted, but we all realized at once the sun was setting awfully fast. Amaranth was putting the oars to water when the boat slammed again!" Bilbo clapped his hands together sharply, so sudden Thorin twitched in startlement. Bilbo's amusement was obvious and grim.

"Well?" Thorin demanded when Bilbo did not immediately continue.

Bilbo swallowed hard. "I was thrown hard against the side, caught myself there. Amaranth was almost sent over, and she lost the oars for it. Not that that mattered. We hadn't more than a second to catch sight of them floating in the water when, goodness, the boat went over, right there in the middle of the river, not a whisper of wind, the only ripples in the water our own.

Bilbo paused again and reached for his wine, taking a long swallow. "I don't remember much after that, if I'm honest. Something brushed along the back of my leg, something snagged my sleeve. I couldn't tell up from down, and all the flailing of my arms did nothing to propel me anywhere. I couldn't think straight, but I suppose drowning has that effect on a person."

Thorin stood abruptly, startling Bilbo out of his reverie. He tugged Bilbo up from the chair, pulling his husband into an embrace, just holding him.

"I would ask if you escaped safely, but I suppose that is plain enough," Thorin murmured into Bilbo's hair.

"Something brushed my sleeve again," Bilbo said in reply, voice muffled against Thorin's chest, his voice humming through Thorin's flesh and bones. "And then a hand was grasping my wrist, pulling me up. When I broke the surface Amaranth was helping me stay above water, Rori already righting the boat. Amaranth looked pale as—as death."

Bilbo squirmed from Thorin's embrace, pulling back enough to look up at Thorin. He tilted his head back to the chairs. "Come sit. I should like another puff of my pipe, you know."

Thorin obeyed, but when he sat, he sat in Bilbo's chair, and when Bilbo made to protest, he tugged at Bilbo's waist, pulling him down into his lap. Bilbo laughed quietly, but tension slowly leaked from his frame.

"I suppose we can continue like this just as comfortably," he allowed before reaching for his pipe. "Where was I then?"

"You were getting back in the boat," Thorin prompted.

"Just so." Bilbo hummed, before blowing out a gust of smoke. "Amaranth looked like she'd seen a ghost, but then I doubt Rori or I looked any better. We rowed back to shore in silence, none of us daring to speak. And though something knocked against our boat like someone was knocking on a door, nothing was hard enough to send us over again.

Bilbo pressed his forehead against Thorin's temple. "We all leapt from the boat to safety and I daresay my feet didn't touch a drop of water, I jumped so far. It was only when we were all on the bank and watching our boat drift without a tether—none of us quite felt like hovering over the water to tie it safely back to the dock, whatever the consequences from Uncle Gorby—that Amaranth confessed:

She'd seen something in the water. Something not-right, she said. Pale, with a man's face and dead eyes and waterweeds for hands." Bilbo sighed, his breath warm and tickling against Thorin's cheek. It was intimate, and any other time Thorin would call claim it too inviting to resist, but here and now it sent a shiver rippling across him.

"Don't misunderstand me. I didn't see anything, and Rori thought she was having us on," Bilbo admitted softly. "But I've never known Amaranth to lie, and she was adamant. _Something_ hit our boat, Thorin.

"It was late by then, and chilly, and none of us were in the mood for a night beneath the stars beside the river anymore, so we collected our belongings and headed for home. When we arrived, Aunt Mira was frantic in her fury. Everyone had been looking for us, she said," Bilbo recalled. "She demanded to know where we'd gone, if we'd heard the news."

"News?" Thorin frowned, tracing back over the story for any telltale signs. He could feel Bilbo's frown form where his mouth pressed against his temple.

"Three drownings," he whispered, voice almost too soft to be heard, "down the river a little ways from us. Two Bolger sisters fishing, and old Fanciful Brandywine who manned the Brandywine ferry." Bilbo's sudden chuckle was edged with grim humor. "He used to tell tales about the strange things in the water, always said that there were good reasons most Hobbits didn't learn to swim.

"No one knew how it happened. What had happened. Three drownings in one day? Nearly six? It was unprecedented. Unheard of. None of us knew that by morning, we'd learn of two more."

Bilbo lapsed into silence. Thorin didn't know what to say, how to comfort his distressed husband, who'd curled his arms around Thorin's neck in a familiar embrace. He held Bilbo a little tighter, and it was all he could do to keep his shock at bay. Surely there were not such dangers in the peaceful, soft Shire, defenseless Hobbits were at risk? Surely the larger world would know of such menaces in the water?

The sound of others arriving for a late supper broke their reverie. Tonight was the Company's weekly meeting to keep each other informed of how the mountain faired. The unsettled unhappiness still mired Bilbo's face, and Thorin shifted restlessly, uneasy, unnerved by Bilbo's story.

"Perhaps," Bilbo began, shifting in Thorin's lap. "I'm not sure the Company—"

There was a choked shout from the entrance room, a sudden clamor of alarmed, confused yells, and then the holler of a battle cry.

Thorin was on his feet at the first alarmed noise—it was damn near a yelp when Dwalin shouted like that, and only an overwhelming enemy would bring such a sound. Bilbo tumbled from his lap, catching himself on Thorin's arm and just managing to keep on his feet.

Thorin barely felt the glare and annoyed mutter. He pulled his sword, making to move forward, though Bilbo caught hold of his hand once more, gripping tight. Thorin glanced down in concern, barely catching sight of Bilbo wide-eyed and biting his lip in—distress? fear?—before his attention was once more drawn up by an almighty _CLANG_ from the entrance, as of blade meeting stone.

_CLANG!_ Again, loud enough Mahal himself surely heard it buried deep in his mountain home.

And the softest thud, too quiet to be a body considering the ruckus, but—

Someone—several someones began cursing, their voices rising loudly before falling into muted mutters that were quickly trailed by silence.

Someone in the hall began laughing.

Bilbo made a choking noise. Thorin turned back to him quickly only to find Bilbo red-faced and trembling.

"Bilbo—" Thorin began, crouching beside him, the fight in the other room forgotten at once, a flutter of panic fluting in his chest.

Bilbo caught Thorin's expression and began laughing.

Thorin went still, staring at Bilbo in disbelief. "Bilbo..?"

Bilbo waved at him. He looked as though he wished to speak, but merely hunched over, burying his head in his hands as he lost control of himself completely.

The pieces began to fall into place.

There was the click of the door to the entrance hall opening, and Thorin looked up to catch sight of Dwalin in the doorway, face a furious shade of pink as he glared at Thorin and the back of Bilbo's chair, where Bilbo curled over himself as continued laughing, breathless and wheezing as he was quickly becoming. The Company stood shadowed behind Dwalin like specters, and Dwalin's arms were wrapped around a dark mass.

Thorin coughed to cover his laughter. It didn't work.

"I'm going to murder ye both," Dwalin hissed low. Bilbo's giant spider creaked in warning as Dwalin's hold tightened. The body slowly crushed inward.

Thorin turned his face away before he began laughing once more only to catch sight of his husband collapsed back in his chair, a slowly calming mound of laughing Hobbit.

"I suppose there's an axe embedded in my wall now," Bilbo remarked, laughter and exasperation coloring his voice in equal measure.

"Oh aye, and that fancy table of yers is broken too," Bofur's voice rang out somewhere behind those still lodged in the doorway.

"Don't think it wasn't deserved too," Dwalin snapped, though a deep red blush marred the bridge of his nose.

Bilbo caught Thorin's suspicious glare. He muffled another burst of laughter against his hand, wheezing out in short, quick bites of breath, "Didn't I mention we tell scary stories?"

Thorin's eyes narrowed. "You didn't, _yasthûn_. Bonfires and—and tricks…" Thorin growled. Bilbo's eyes were laughing at him merrily even as he smothered his last chuckles in his palm.

"The whole thing. The explanations, the story. It was all for show," Thorin accused, and if he couldn't hold his scowl as much as he would have liked, well, that was Dwalin's fault for looking so cursedly ridiculous standing in the doorway, a life-size spider crushed in his arms, more than one of its legs dangling as if unmoored, and one of Dwalin's axes missing.

It didn't hurt that Bilbo looked so charmingly pleased with himself either.

Bilbo's laughter redoubled. He deserved the stomachache he'd earn from it. He'd no doubt complain about his destroyed decorations.

"Is there such a thing as All Hallows Eve, or was that in jest as well?" Thorin inquired, aiming for unimpressed but suspecting he landed somewhere in amused, however reticently.

"Of course there is," Bilbo said between slowing chuckles. "This would all be a bit mad if there wasn't, now wouldn't it?"

"This isn't already mad, not at all," Thorin returned, and yes, his tone undoubtedly betrayed his amusement now. To think there had ever been a day Thorin and Bilbo mutually thought the other without a sense of humor.

"I worried I overplayed it a bit," Bilbo confessed.

"You didn't," Thorin grumbled. He shot his husband a dirty look. "You led me there like a pony on a lead!"

Bilbo's grin wasn't the least repentant. "It's the mark of a good storyteller, and I've always had a knack if I do say so myself."

"Don't think I won't have vengeance," Thorin warned, scowling down at him, and was pleased by the pretty flush that painted Bilbo's cheeks in consequence.

There was a grunt and Dwalin was forced a mutinous step forward from the door. Half the Company tumbled into the room behind him.

Kíli was the only one who managed to keep his feet without the slightest stumble. The spider on the silk rope bopped against the shoulder. He batted it away. Blinked and batted harder when it came swinging back to smack him full in the face. Caught it as it came for a third hit.

"What _is_ this?" Kíli exclaimed. Dwalin growled, voice rumbling deeply enough it was a surprise the floor room didn't vibrate with it.

Bilbo caught Thorin's eye, grinning cheerfully. "That's why the spiders."

**Author's Note:**

> Khuzdul (all hail the Dwarrow Scholar):  
>  _amrâlimê_ – my love  
>  _"'ârra! 'Usarul ofsil!"_ – approximately "Ah! Sourest fuck!" ( _'ârra_ : aargh/expression of strong emotion. _'Usarul_ : sourest. _Ofsil_ : fuck – literally the act of sexuality.)  
>  _yasthûn_ – partner/wife/husband. As far as I understand it, this is a neutral (and the sole) word for "spouse" in Khuzdul, an individual's gender identity applied by the language partnered with the word. So Bilbo is Thorin's husband because he identifies himself as male. How brilliant is that?
> 
> As ever, please feel free to correct my Khuzdul. :)


End file.
